


Shades of Grey

by Lizlow



Category: Bad Apple Wars (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 09:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20240752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizlow/pseuds/Lizlow
Summary: Sketch the world in another shade.Fill in the lines once more, but do not be afraid to let the dribbles pitter so.Should they lack color, let the mind replace it. Work a bit. If they miss it, if they fail to discern the meaning within... that is okay, for it will there, only momentarily, for them to see.





	Shades of Grey

**Author's Note:**

> This features a split between Natsuhisa and Haruhiko -- I think it's fun to play into the ever so specific differences and similarities BAW gives up of the two! They aren't entirely similar, of course. That being said, it's been a little bit since I've played BAW ! It's still very much dear tho -- _especially!_ Shikishima's route! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Sketch the world in another shade.

Fill in the lines once more, but do not be afraid to let the dribbles pitter so.

It is their choice. They will find their way to a home of their own, eventually, just like the cute little bugs do. They will find a way to sway in the breeze with a comfortable waft, just like the adorably strong flowers do.

Every layer adds another depth of detail to the moment, captured forevermore, even if these memories will all soon go back to the wind, becoming the clouds that gracefully scatter across the crimson sky. They are an empty grey that would surely cause pink to glitter if they shed their tears.

It is a grey that no one understands, but that is okay.

While the vibrant blooms that root around him chatter and broad, some a defiant red, some an accepting blue, another a moody purple, and yet a further one a wistfully longing mixture, he stays. Capturing it all, but unable to spread.

What is he, but a rotting bloom that refuses to perish? A dying light that missed the sun, giving way to those more capable, stronger. Who is he, but a petal adrift? Where are the shades he paints? How can he express them when they try to shout upon deaf, drowned by the bathing of the sun, of the gusts that storm right through?

Are they dust? Well… yes, that is okay, too. If they have become mere flecks and specks upon this enclosed plain, let them hold onto what little uniqueness they have illusioned themselves to have, and press forward. They are what they are, strong mites, watching, away, struggling, Swimming through the air while he… he is floating.

Who is he, but an odd outsider, unable to blend?

His world, devoid of what he had once desired, all boiled out to grey. More and more grey. No matter how much passion he presents, it is futile. Should he not make way? Make way for those whose message is louder. Is this not already fate? Why return, when he is cursed? Why return, when he hasn’t room to live?

Oh, but that’s okay.

Everything is okay. Let him fade to nothing, become solely the soil in which the foundation of others can be placed upon. Let the flames wash him mark away and give a canvas renewed to those with more hope – more…

There’s that suffocating and familiar tug, the one that drags him back to reality and opens his eyes, his ears, to the truth. With this fleeting touch and steals his air so fast, only to shove it back, he can see back the shaded grey into the colors he’s so wished for. Even his own creations, ones  _ she’s _ tried to hold onto in this world where tangibility is relative only to their wishes, have a spot of it and – ah, perhaps he hasn’t released this thread yet.

These greys – by grace, they are beautiful.

\---

His eyes open quickly, his breath stolen away by the impact of his dream state. How… peculiar a world that was, with such vibrant, permeating crimson. What was it?  _ Where _ was it? Why does his chest ache? And… was the girl beside him  _ Rinka _ ? Mourning the loss of his color? Beside him had been a  _ sketchbook _ , with lines solely of  _ grey _ , as though they had been drained of every last ounce of individually.

It’s so… sad, he thinks, something that feels ever so tragic.

Uneasy, he touches his neck. It had felt restricted in the dream, because  _ she _ pulled at the scarf that was around it. He heard himself laugh, airy, as though the breezes themselves were hinting at something further. “ _ Rinka, I’ve no plans of floating away. I am not the wind, but my feet, my body, they are at the mercy of it. It seems, however, similar to the bees who wish for life, it still leads me right to you.” _

But that wasn’t him. No.

That couldn’t have been Shikishima  _ Haruhiko _ .

“Haruhiko-san?”

“Rinka…”

Did he disturb her with this stir? Goodness, they took a nap right here now, didn’t they? A lovely warm day, so perfect for a reprieve of that nature. Full stomachs and swelling hearts, with hands mingled beneath the sun and flowers that match them. They ought to get back home soon. Wouldn’t want to worry anyone, wouldn’t want to be late.

But… He gets it. He accepts it. That dream, that heaviness that mocked his lungs and restricted his fingers, his sight. That had been  _ Natsuhiko _ . Yes. It has to have been. That’s the feeling in his gut. And it’s a blessing forward, to the good will, good fortune, of what is…  _ well _ , beautiful.

“Please do not worry. It was just a more interesting dream than usual.”

“Oh? Can you tell me a little about it? Please?”

Haruhiko smiles. He smiles and goes to one knee, taking her hand, “You were there. As beautiful, as helpful, as vibrant as ever.”

“O-Oh..?”

“Yes, you were as brilliant as the sun, Rinka.”

“N-No, that has to be you…”

“My favorite—“

“—just like the sunflowers around us.”

Together, laughing, rooted strongly. The beginnings, always fresh, always here. That choking feeling dissipates, as though the tug bows out, accepting who he is.

If they float away, it would be together. Further and further. Those flowers all around  _ him _ in the dream – worry not, he’s apart of them too. One whose room has been made, whose fit has been accepted as  _ just _ him. Even if he’s the odd one in name, he is one of them. Just as deserving.

It’s the spring that will always remember the summer.

This is where they bloom again.

\---

His eyes follow the little caterpillar, as it wiggles and worms its way up a vibrant flower. How adorable. How precious. What is that bloom to it? A relation? A hope? Does the tiny friend see something, much renewed? A tiny droplet slips from a lead, softening just a teeny bit of the soil below. And that caterpillar journey so far, stretches out once it meets its destination.

Ah, he sees it.

He seeks the sun.

Haruhiko wonders where those trails of thoughts were born from, but he accepts them as his own. For a moment, his sight flashes grey, so he removes his red-framed glasses and rubs his eyes. Then, he laughs, genuinely. This life, it’s quite so strange. How fate allows him to see, see how bright things are. How greys will meet a paintbrush and return to color, and these beautiful shades, all of them, the shadows and lights, are all at his fingertips.

“Little friend, I thank you. Two photographs for you. One of tones, one of shows.”

Holding up his camera, he leans close and careful, adjusting his settings. One in color. And then one in greyscale. This little pillar, standing proud. Certain.

Is he, as well? Or will life keep brings such tumbly-twists and turns?

It’s something to wonder about, as the sun begins to make its descent. It deserves a rest, for brightening the skies for so long today. The moon is an apt shift, taking the reflection of the stars and giving them back.

This world is quite lovely. He’s glad his eyes have been more open to that lately. Ever since that encounter with his Great-Uncle’s painting, ever since he put the painting up for the world to see, ever since he met her. He’s been more willing to see. More willing to stretch himself out, witness the world. A photograph here - of something non-traditional, of something new, easily passed over. 

Before, of course, he would take photos, but they would lack, as though something was holding him back. Grey crept into his life and clouded his potential. Fate changed it. Where never turned to always and the ruts filled with bliss. 

“Natsuhisa... Shikishima...” Haruhiko shades his eyes and looks where the caterpillar turns as it thrives upon its perch, “I want to thank you.”

A name that will no longer be allowed to fade to dust, a loom that will never encroach, because how could the sky forever steal away the sun itself? 

“Thank you, for coloring the sky, for giving us a place to stare on with fondness.”

He puts the lens cap on his camera and breathes out. He’s stopped on the side of the walkway long enough. Any longer, and someone might think something is wrong. That sort of attention... he could do without. 

“Even if other forces draw us close to darkness, to doubts... the strength to fight until the very end, won’t you continue shining it on us?”

But Haruhiko already knows the answer to that. It’s there. Perhaps, it always has been. Perhaps, the influences about him gave way to his phrasing. Gave way to the flowers and broke away from the hesitance. He hasn’t a choice, hasn’t a wish, but to smile now, and let the blooming spring be. 

_ Rinka... is likely looking at the sunset as well. I should be heading back. _

“Haha, of course you will. We’re right here after all. A legacy, alive.” 


End file.
